


The Dead Travel Fast

by Mad_Madame_Mim



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Elisabeth Bathory, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Henrik has 99 problems and his vampire boyfriend and wife are some, Henrik von Schneeplestein - Freeform, I feel sorry for people who stumble on this from the movie or book tag, Mostly because Anti is Jack the Ripper, Mostly marital based guilt and abandonment, Multi, This was meant to be porn without plot what happened, This will be slow burn and probably take me centuries to post so I'll add tags as I go, but also because all the vampires in this are freaking serial killers or genocidal warlords, dr. iplier - Freeform, eventual angst, is Dracula, is Henrik Van Helsing in this, is herself and is perfect, warning: gore and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 19:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19893181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Madame_Mim/pseuds/Mad_Madame_Mim
Summary: When his mentor is found murdered, by a vampire, Henrik Van Helsing travels to Bistritz to seek out and destroy his killer, who is far from done with their murder spree.





	The Dead Travel Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This mess was only meant as a joke, at first, but has grown like its own, vampiric, plague. I am so sorry for how weird this is and how long it'll probably be before the fun smut starts.
> 
> I'm mostly not going to have Henrik's "accent," in this, save for when he is, specifically, speaking English. So if you wonder where all of the "zhe gutt doctah" bits are, it's mostly because he is meant to be speaking German through most of this. I'll try to keep Van Helsing's awesome lack of understanding idioms from other languages or mistranslating them, because they are part of why I loved his character, originally. This will be me trying not to sound like an arse, jsdjcnsijcdnn.

_ 3 _ _ rd _ _ of May, 1897. On route to Vienna. _

_ The chug and rumble of the engine, the rattling tracks, the belch of smoke leaving blackened water droplets to smear over the window of my carriage. It all reminds me of when Elizabeth and I took our tour, after the wedding, in Amsterdam. _

_ The countryside is just as lovely, the hubbub of chatter, from the nearby dining car, just as lulling, as I remember. I could almost tell myself that I am headed to Klausenburgh to visit family on the way to Hungary. I could almost trick my mind to believe that it was our honeymoon, again. _

Henrik sighed, setting down his pen and putting aside his journal. He’d expected this trip to be a hard one, as it had been years since he’d traveled this far, East. London had grown on him like the mold of a factory roof, and he’d been able to set aside his past with relative ease.

Save, of course, his very particular pastime.

Tired of journaling, he idly scanned the letter  _ Herrs _ Ludwig and Hausenbauer had sent him, intent on ignoring his memories for the course of this exhibition.

_ Herr Van Helsing, _

_ We send this missive with the ill news of the death of Herr Delbruck. In times more Godly than these, we’d be able to say he died, peacefully, on his estate, surrounded by his grandchildren. Instead, we must recount the horrid way in which our old friend was, most brutally, murdered. _

_ Do not, Roger pleads, read this in front of any of the fairer sex. For, we should not hope to have them come to hear of the cruelties inflicted upon so dear a mentor and pillar of the community of Bistritz. _

_ We only send these grim descripts in order to more ably prepare you… _

The letter went on to explain that the elderly Dr. Alexei Delbruck had been found dead, internal organs removed and strung around his drawing room in the most garish display.

The report was stiff and detailed, listing the guessed at manner of removal, details of the organs, and even how much blood remained in the body on being found: a minimal less than a pint, which, nevertheless, did not matter with the removal of his bowels.

Even if the wound at his neck had managed to drain the last of his life from the vein, the internal damage would halt the transformation. A frail blessing to not force his once proteges to pierce his heart or behead the corpse. He died as a man, though not as any man should.

And the kill was perplexing. The photograph folded within the letter, blistered brown on silvered backing, showed a scene out of a nightmare. But not one, fundamentally, animalistic, as he might have presumed to see. The killer had been methodical, and wounds on the body suggested most were inflicted before the inevitable bite. All save the last: his eyelids had been slit after enough blood had been drained that the wounds hardly bled. The photo revealed his staring, glassy eyes.

The marks also meant that Henrik's mentor and confidant had died  _ after _ most of his insides were freed from the vault of his abdominal cavity, as these creatures rarely drank from a corpse, and each organ had still been far from bled out.

It was a shocking waste for these monsters, to leave so much of their meal behind. He'd been tortured, pure and simple, and if the saliva on his throat hadn't reacted to holy water, on contact, Henrik could almost have believed this was the leavings of one of those wretched unfortunates whom vampires sometimes kept as guardians during their sleeping hours. Men and women who so craved to be one of these things, that they served them, and oft reveled in killing their own kind in similar ways to their masters.

Perhaps, though, it had been committed by two individuals. Mortal striking the man to feed a wounded master, perhaps? Or wanting to strike at the heart of the area's Hunters by slaying one of their foremost teachers. A threat to the rest of them.

The whistle of the train paused his musings, and he flashed a bright smile to the trolley woman as she trundled by, offering stuffed breads to passengers to eat as they explored beyond the station for their rest period. In a practiced motion he flicked the letter closed to avoid her wandering gaze, tucking it in his jacket pocket, hanging next to the window, before examining the platter.

“ A love letter, Dr…?” She asked, eyes flickering first to the medical symbol on his luggage, then to the coat as if it held a dire secret.

“ Hmm?” he chirped, placidly. “Oh,  _ nein, nein. _ Just vork details, my dear.” He reached for a pastry.

“ Ah, mind those, sir. They are quite spicy.” She warned in a bored tone, having lost her chance to snoop. She spoke fluent English, but both the flower pattern on her bonnet and the colouring of her shawl hinted she was Hungarian stock.

Pre-emptively attempting to be polite, he asked if that were the case, and on her much brighter response, made easy conversation on whether she knew this or that family, and, how darling, she did. How were they doing? Ah, the boy was already a troublemaker, like his shipwright father, yes, yes, how terribly unfair to his dear, saintly, mother. Having successfully distracted her from his business, he never did manage to get around to his name, or even how he knew said family. Which he did not. She seemed the type to easily fill that in, herself.

Either way, she left him without a dour mood and without causing a stir amongst the passengers, which is what he'd hoped for. And if she spoke to anyone about him, he'd be seen as already knowing people in the area. Quite useful.

It was best, when traveling abroad, to always appear as if you knew right where you were going. And knew the locals.

Henrik pulled himself to his feet as the train slowed for the five mile whistle, tucking the paper wrapped meatpies onto the seat while fetching his bag and traveling trunk. A sturdy thing of leather-coated wood and brass fittings, taller than his hip, and able to lean like a dolly on twin wheels, his trunk could hold a decent wardrobe and tools of the trade, aside. Quite ingenious, really.

Normally, most passengers would leave their heavier trunks behind during the coal restocking break, but he wasn't too singular in keeping his. Other paranoid or wealthy travelers were intent on keeping their belongings close on this journey as well. So he didn't stand out.

Strapping his suitcase to the top of it, he then caught up his cloth pack and folded it over his neck. Finally, pulling on his coat, Dr. Henrik Van Helsing picked up the pastries -they did smell quite good. Like pepper and chicken- before following the crowd down onto the platform.

Looking back along the station as the handler helped haul his trunk down to the riders platform, Henrik could see the winding line of smoke, trailing like a snake, along the miles they'd traversed. The wind was slowly, but surely scouring it away, like a matron cleaning soot from a pot.

Evening was rushing in, as it often did in these parts, and stars already lit above the great Danube behind them. Rolling countryside spanned in all directions, save ahead, where abrupt hills and the shadows of the Carpathias littered the horizon.

“ It's called the Dragon's Backbone, you know,” the handler supplied, cheerfully, noticing him staring at the jagged peaks. “Zhey seem more like teeth,” Henrik mumbled in return, earning a surprised laugh from the man. “Oh, I'm not surprised. They've 'eaten' countless men before, and won't soon stop, I don't doubt. Teeth they be, indeed, sir. Don't forget your napsack, now.” And with that, he politely shooed him off to help the next passenger disembark.

The Carpathian mountains seemed magical, in their own way. They always seemed miles and miles away, days of travel between you and them, but as the land rose into their foothills their shadows always seemed to be overhead, reaching to bite the sky in their ragged jaws, until you were so suddenly amongst their number you could swear they had moved to surround you. Many crags had living stories of old gods who dwelt within, lairing like a prince among the clouds. It was said that all the superstitions of the world were born in the horseshoe of those mountains.

Utter nonsense, of course. And he had no time for such tales when there were true nightmares to deal with. Normally, he'd enjoy the fables and view much more than today. But, right now, he needed to focus. Concentrate on the coming hunt, and assure the other Hunters had no major threat, here.

He hadn't even given himself time to properly mourn the loss of his once mentor. And he doubted he'd have the chance, anytime soon. It was too much of a distraction. Once his killer was found, then he could take the time to honour his old friend.

Henrik sighed as he trailed up the street into the town, proper. It was still hard to imagine coming back to this corner of the world knowing he wouldn't be greeted by crinkling eyes over a thick beard, and hearty laughter that echoed like a king in his hall.

“ King Laugh,” he chuffed, lightly, watching the Danube glitter like a ribbon spun from starlight, in the distance, before making his way into the stationside rest area, along with the other passengers awaiting the return whistle.

Here were people. Humanity, tired and raw and chattering. Alive. Smoke filled the air in the gentlemen's section, and the clink of brandy glasses. Women carefully arranged themselves away from the noise, lifting their skirts off the wooden floor and tutting at the dust.

Sun starved plants had been arranged next to the tables with trays of snowmelt and brandy. Henrik paused, catching up one of the brandy glasses. “Not beer, but still.”

Silently, away from the chatter, he poured the contents into one of the meek little plants, murmuring, “To King Laugh,” silently promising a proper libation once the monster that killed him had been found.

*

Two hours and the train's coal stores were turned and the engine steaming to life, him back in his carriage, rumbling along the tracks.

Outside the window rushed night time pastures, hills and folds and the occasional black-rock bound river, recently swept clean by the seasonal rains. In the distance old castles and border towers would be lit against the grey clouds, before fading into shade as the train passed by.

Klausenburgh was along this track. Henrik could almost imagine seeing the roof of the Hotel Royale as they thundered through it, and the roofs of his cousins homes, beyond. Perhaps he could visit, after his hunt. It had been years since he had. Since before his son was born.

His hand tightened on the handle of his luggage as he turned from the window, keeping his gaze, firmly, inside the carriage until the town had passed.

The next town was a full day's stop, followed by the final leg of the steam engine's journey (though, by far, not the end of the route he'd be taking), and then he was finally heading into the heart of those toothsome mountains, on the way to Bistritz.

The post town of Bistritz was a small one, near the borders of three states: Bukovina, Transylvania, and Moldavia, nestled within the Carpathians like a stone hen, in the Borgau Pass. But, for its size, it was quite lively; a main sector of trade and commerce.

It was in part, due to this, that his knowledge of German was generally enough to get him what he needed, when visiting here. There were even nearby villages where his native Dutch was reflected in the populace. His knowledge of Romanian was limited, and sounded stilted, when he attempted to speak it. Henrik was as used to the pained expressions of native speakers, here, as he was back in London, as he'd stumble over English and trip over unfamiliar idioms, so he hardly reacted to the chuckled asides and disapproving glances, anymore. Henrik had years of practice and a stubborn will, that allowed him to plough on through even the most awkward conversations with a placid smile.

It helped to treat every conversation like a battlefield to be navigated or torn asunder. Not through violence, necessarily, but through sheer willpower and an unflappability of the soul. Not that he was a stranger to violence.

But a doctor was a doctor, no matter how deep into the Hunter's mentality he had grown. And, even as he collected his luggage and loaded it into the wagon that would take him and the group of townsfolk into the estates to the north of Bistritz, he couldn't help but recognize the bitter, wheezing cough of the man opposite him for an infection in the chest.

Stowing his trunk under the wooden bench of the cart, Henrik glanced at the driver, who was still busy readying his horse's tack. He had time. Smiling, brightly, he signaled to the coughing man to get his attention before he could climb into the wagon.

An older gentleman, he wore a wide-brimmed, brown hat in the style of the herdsmen of the area, and his skin was stained by the sun. The handkerchief he coughed into was an old tartan scrap, hardly cleaner than his travelworn clothing. Quickly, Henrik pulled his own kerchief from his pocket and motioned for the man to take it, all the while digging in his kit for -ah. There.

Out came a thick glass bottle, filled with round tablets, smelling strongly of willow bark. The man blinked in a bemused mixture of prideful disdain and startlement as his eyes locked on the medical symbol on Henrik's trunk. Henrik didn't give him the chance to decline, tapping the vial's base until two powdery disks landed in his palm, offering them to the gentleman. “For your cough,” he explained in German, but the man either didn't understand, or was pretending not to. Henrik rather thought it the latter.

He was about to repeat the statement in his poor grasp of Romanian, when a woman seated in the wagon shouted soundly down at the older man, and for all that Henrik couldn't catch what she said, the familiarity of a wifely chastisement was in full force. The man grumbled back, only to be glared into silence. A short, rapid barrage of syllables had him tossing his hands into the air before turning back on the waiting doctor.

Henrik was used to distrust of physicians, back in London. Especially foreigners. But it was generally due to snake oil salesmen and a general disdain of anyone with an accent. This couple didn't seem to be responding in kind. They more reminded him of any dozen elderly couples he had met, where the husband refused to show any frailty in front of his wife or, worse, strangers.

Doctors were rare in places this far out, so the general consequences of possible frauds was less worried about. Honestly, what money could a charlatan hope to make from people who often never saw metal coinage above a pence in their lives?

Wandering doctors, especially churchmen, were common enough, so an added show of crossing himself helped soften the man's resolve against taking the mystery medicine and dealing with the embarrassing truth of age.

Henrik smiled as he handed over cloth and pills, then, as an afterthought, added his card, saying “Delbruck,” to explain where he was headed. Two pills would not be enough to deal with a deep chest inflammation, but he didn't dare give him more, in case he overdosed. The man muttered sullenly, and his wife began to haltingly try to explain they had no money, but Henrik merely put on that unflappable smile, like armour, and made a show of revealing the silver cross hanging from his neck. Under it was a black collar, thicker than the average priest's collar, but it caused an instant relaxing in their shoulders on recognizing it. Let them think he was a missionary doctor, willing to work for a meal. He had money enough for this trip and people willing to house him during his hunt. If he had time, he'd help whom he could.

*

While he would not claim it as his intention, the fact that his pills did seem to help soothe the older man's cough came with more than just a sense of moral uprightness. As the driver slid the short, wooden plank into place at the back of the cart, securing them inside more by an honour system than in actual attempt at safety, a young woman who had been mostly reserved up to that point, glanced at the couple across from them, before nodding to herself and turned to speak to him in easy German.

She almost immediately asked him what he knew of the area, and although he'd been there, before, Henrik saw no reason to turn down the possibility of free knowledge of his future hunting grounds that was more up to date than nearly a decade of difference.

Letting his collar show more freely, he shifted on the bench until his shoulderbag was more comfortably leaning into his lap, so the jolting of the cart wouldn't hurt his neck, and listened as the woman -Marta, by name- kindly went over some of the recent news of the area. Mostly warnings of which roads he should avoid due to late snowstorms threatening, leaving dangerous slush and mudslides where the ice melted on hitting the warm earth, but he could tell she was interested in something else.

The countryside rolled by as he waited for her to decide if she was brave enough to say what she truly wanted, and the Hunter took the time, less to enjoy it, and more to rememorize it. This path was more traveled than others, kept trimmed and clean of brush, dug out to be made as level as possible the entire route, with wilder offshoots, mostly to the right, leading into the forest. To the left, leading back towards town, the paths were even sturdier, with logs embedded into the dirt and coated in gravel. It meant, even unable to spy the lights of Bistritz through the trees, a lost man could find his way home.

This road was only dirt, with deep ruts from many years of carts using it, but as it ran all the way to the estate homes to the north of the city, as well as the farmland inbetween, twin walking or riding trails had been cleared to either side, rather than the usual habit of allowing the trees to grow right up to the edge. Even so, whenever the path cut into little hills or bends, and the walls to either side rose higher than his view in the cart, the dirt was packed with tangled roots that looked to have seen decades of growth. Even the heaviest floods would struggle to wash the dirt free.

Eventually Marta asked, “Are you staying at the Delbruck Estate?”

He'd thought about it. The Estate had plenty of supplies from the myriad Hunters who had trained with or simply visited Dr. Delbruck, over the years. But the killer had managed to gain entry to it. Meaning it had been invited. All safety against the beast the place would have once given would be moot until the house was properly cleansed and signed over to the next owner. Until then, Roger and Boris would be guarding it.

Though none of them thought the beast would return. “Dr. Delbruck was a dear friend. I am going to the Estate to help put his affairs in order.” The warble in his voice on the word  _ friend _ was very real. “But I am staying in town.” They'd decided on him staying at the Inn, as it was central in town, and all vampires who had ever gained invitation had been quickly dispatched due to the protections the townsfolk themselves put forth. Their superstitions could be very useful.

Marta seemed to catch the falter in his words, giving a gentle pat to his arm. “He was a good man.” She frowned, though, and added, carefully, “Will you be carrying your cross, with you, Father?”

It could be refreshing to be in a place where people knew to fear the night. Still, he wouldn't admit what he was, to many. There was no need to alert his prey, if anyone here served the thing. “Always,” he assured, easily, instead. “A man can always trust in the protection of Heaven.”

A couple of other passengers nodded, and soon conversation, though slow through translation in some cases, began freely as they trundled up the road.

*

Soon the cart began to empty, as passengers hopped down to take the splitting paths leading to farmsteads in the distance. Even the older couple. Henrik helped the wife down and smiled when the man nodded his thanks.

Soon only he, Marta, three auditors and a couple from Moldavia visiting family, were left riding. Marta was already gathering her stuff, fixing her hairscarf, when the sound of fast paced hoofbeats sounded from ahead.

The passengers looked up at the sound, as three men rounded the corner on horseback. They wore long coats and furry hats, knives tucked into wide belts. It was surprising to see anyone able to afford the upkeep of horses in this rural an area, and looking at the poor beasts, Henrik could gather they were, at best, surviving on wild growth. Their cheekbones and foremost ribs were visible, and their black hides were so dusty they looked grey.

The handlers of the creatures were just as dusty, though better fed. Their hats hid their hair, and each wore a scarf over the bottom of their face. Not much of a disguise, but enough to likely confuse people not native to the area. Henrik could see dark brows and little else. As they approached the driver's horse wickered, slowing to a stop as one rider stood in the road, ahead.

As the other passengers reacted in a mixture of outrage and fear, the other two riders forced their mounts to jump onto the side trails of the road, one settling alongside while the other leapt back down to stand behind the cart, effectively blocking them in.

The one at the back called out to the one blocking the road, who reached out to snatch the cart horse's reins in his hand, jerking the lead from the driver. The driver tried to reach for it, before flinching back as the man snapped at him in Romanian, putting his hands in his lap, mutely. Henrik, tilting his head, followed suit, one hand tucked under his pack.

The one at the back was shorter than the other two, and what Henrik could see of his face was red and sunburnt. His eyes were keen behind the scarf and he obviously had a thick mustache and beard. Henrik idly tried to mark the features, in case his compatriots might recognize them, later.

But the man seemed upset at his staring, growling out a command in further Romanian. Henrik smiled, shaking his head and looking around at the other passengers, who were all much tenser than he.

Next thing he knew the one at the back had tossed aside the wooden block at the rear of the cart, bouncing from his complaining horse's saddle into the cart, proper. He continued to speak, snapping at the Moldavians, who blanched and began pushing their bags towards his feet. Marta was muttering prayers under her breath, clutching at a silver coin of a saint on her necklace. It was old. Likely a family heirloom or a bridal gift. Often even the poorest women in these parts had silver saint coins, or were given them when they came of age to marry.

The man to the side of the cart growled from behind her, hand extended, making her jump. She whimpered and reluctantly drew the cord over her head, placing it into his glove as Henrik watched.  


By that point, the red-faced man had reached Henrik, though, and was staring down at the doctor. He signaled to the small pack Henrik had across his lap, barking orders in Romanian. The Hunter merely smiled in response, saying in German, "Oh. I don't need any help, carrying it. Thank you."

More angry pointing and the other two men were leading their horses closer, warily. Henrik felt the warmth of the starved beast's side thump into his back as it brushed against the cart, behind him. The one at the front thumbed the pommel of a knife sheathed over his animal's neck.

Another barked command and the other travelers were looking wild-eyed as Henrik only repeated the gesture of not needing help.

Finally, Marta, next to him piped up, frantically waving at him and shaking her head as she explained, to the men, that he didn't speak their language. The one in the cart, the obvious leader of the three, snapped at her until she cringed, silent, before laughing darkly and speaking to his compatriots.

After a few choice words they all three laughed, uproariously, the two on horseback adding a few remarks of their own, waving Henrik's way. Henrik smiled, bright and friendly, in response, causing more laughter from the group, and scattered looks of fear from his traveling companions.

Henrik turned on the driver, saying in broken Romanian, "Joining us?" Waving at the three, who all laughed again. The driver shushed him, looking about ready to speak when the middle of the three stepped closer to Henrik's seat, bending down in front of him to look him in the eye.

Slowly, he drew a knife from his belt and waved it from side to side, in front of the Hunter's nose. Henrik's smile faltered a bit, making the man grin.

In heavily accented German, the man chirped, "Give bag. Now. Or knife." The blade tapped against Henrik's glasses arch. The little doctor frowned, looking confused and worried, as if just coming to understand the situation. This gave the highwayman no end of entertainment. He was still laughing when Henrik pulled the bag strap over his head and pushed it forward with his knee, freeing his other hand that had been tucked out of view.

The man was still laughing as the cold barrel of Henrik's pistol pressed against his crotch.

The laughter died as his eyes flickered down, then back up at a happily smiling Henrik. In the best Romanian he could muster, he purred, "Back down, and leave." His smile became a grin at the bead of sweat forming on the other man's forehead. "Or castration."

He felt the rider behind him shift, and leaned to the side just in time to dodge the knife aimed for his neck. Seeing the coin hanging from the highwayman's wrist, he idly snatched the thing, snapping the cord and in the same move reaching back to slap the horse's rump. The skittish creature shrieked and charged forward, nearly deseating its rider as it raced back down the road they'd come up. The leader's horse, seeing its herdmate run, chased after, leaving the man in the cart, gun still in his manhood.

The other rider was still holding the reins. “ _ Auf Wiedersehen _ ,” Henrik added, pointedly shoving the barrel upwards, making the man wince.

The man was a decidedly paler red than before, and coughed a ragged order to the last rider, who dropped the reins, obediently. Henrik held up a hand as he began to lead his horse back around, signaling the leader to climb down, first, gun still trained on him. Only once he had, did Henrik motion Marta to move away from the side, waving the other rider past. “No snatching,” he explained, still smiling.

Once the horse made it to him the ruddy-cheeked man nearly tossed himself into the lap of the rider, and they were off and galloping before Henrik could say anything more. After a moment, he redid the safety on his weapon, breathing in, slowly.

Everyone in the cart was watching him. He sighed, handing the saint medallion back to Marta.

She was the first to speak, and her tone was startling in its dry humour, “I think Heaven is not the only protection you carry.”

Henrik's smile became more genuine. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”


End file.
